


The Janitorial Affair

by thegrumblingirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Prompt Fill, a closet's involved, and Illya being a smartass, wet floor signs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: Waverly, in his time, had presented them with many, many undesirable modes of infiltration and transportation.





	The Janitorial Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [countermeasures](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countermeasures/gifts).



> prompt: My first wish is ‘wet floor signs are there for a reason, you know’ for Illya / Solo

Waverly, in his time, had presented them with many, many undesirable modes of infiltration and transportation. Making their way into a building through the garbage disposal had been a particular favourite — Gaby had not thanked him kindly; nor Illya and Solo both for declaring that they were simply too tall to fit in there. Solo strongly suspected, therefore, that their chop shop girl had something to do with it when it fell to Peril to spend three days as a janitor in the Dutch branch of Universal Exports.

Three nights in a row, he came back to their hotel smelling of carpet cleaner and disinfectant. Solo and Gaby teased him mercilessly and with prejudice, which the tall Russian shrugged off with all the equanimity of a bear woken from hibernation early.

On the fourth night, he opened the door to the delivery entrance for Solo.

“Vault is on the first sub-floor,” he whispered. “Safe should be,” he made a vague hand gesture, “so-so.”

The safe was, indeed, so-so. So was their suspect’s understanding of ‘clocking off,’ apparently.

“What’s he doing here?” Solo hissed, squashed against the back wall of the closet.

“I’d rather not speculate,” Illya hissed back.

“You’re no fun,” Solo muttered, receiving an elbow jab for his trouble.

After ten minutes of straining their ears for any sound — muffled phone conversations with international hitmen or otherwise — Illya suddenly grasped for Solo’s hand and pulled him out of the closet with him. (Heh, Solo thought.)

“Go!” Setting himself to the task of picking the lock of the filing cabinet Van Huiten had bothered to check before he left, Illya shooed Solo towards the door.

Not one to be told twice, Solo took up the chase. As fate would have it, his mark was paranoid enough to check over his shoulder — and smart enough to start running when Solo didn’t duck into a doorway fast enough. Cursing, Solo took off after him. Down corridor after corridor, they ran, Solo gaining steadily — from behind him, he heard Illya’s thundering footsteps approaching.

Up ahead, Van Huiten turned a corner a tad too sharply. Solo watched, eyes widening, as Van Huiten’s arms started wheeling through the air; but his fate was inevitable. Crashing into the opposite wall, Van Huiten let out a grunt of pain, then landed flat on his back. Solo skidded to a halt on the polished marble floor, Illya hot on his heels; even the invincible Russian a little out of breath. Van Huiten was still on the ground, groaning.

Catching his breath, Illya smirked.

“Wet floor signs are there for reasons, you know.”

Solo held in a laugh, saving his breath. Janitor, indeed.


End file.
